This post is not suitable for children under the age of 10. No wait, make that 16.
Snowmobiling has been on our bucket-list for a very long time, so part of the reason for our trip to the Arctic was to accomplish this. We'd originally booked the snowmobiling for Tromso in Norway, so that we could chase the Northern Lights some more, but our trip was cancelled because the snow was tardy. So when we got to Levi, and saw all that lovely snow, we pre-booked a 90km round trip to The Snow Village and back. This was estimated to take about 5-7 hours, and would run through narrow forest trails, wider expanses, over dams and through some very beautiful scenery in northern Finland.
We arrived early in the morning and met our guide and two Brits who were booked on the trip with us. At this point, the guide was still optimistic and friendly, and didn't think I was a complete fuck head. Neither did the Brits. That was soon to change. (My wife has always thought I'm a bit of a fuck head, so her perception of me did not change in any way).
The beginning of the trip was fairly uneventful. We drove across a frozen swamp, and all was right in our small group and with the world. We saw some reindeers, but no squirrels. We think the Scandinavians have eaten all the squirrels, but I digress.
We then moved beyond the straight, flat section, and the trail narrowed and started to curve a lot, and it was here that our guide wished he had called in sick with syphilis that day. Everyone else was doing just fine, but for some reason, I can't steer like a normal person - my snowmobile was magnetically attracted to trees. Which is odd, as trees are not made of metal. Unless these trees are made of metal, and painted to look like wood. Which I wouldn't put past those crafty Scandinavians.
I crashed spectacularly, and found myself down a very steep incline, with my snowmobile skis wrapped around a few trees. I immediately freaked out and remembered the 650 Euro co-payment I'd have to make to cover the excess on the insurance if I damaged the snowmobile. Poodle would kill me as that would severely affect her wine budget.
The guide soon noticed I was no longer behind him, and the whole party was halted as the guide dashed back to save me. Poodle checked I was fine, and when she established I was still alive, she pointed and laughed. A lot. And then decided to take some arty shots to further ridicule me.
The guide looked pale as he assessed the damage, and then pulled a machete from his bag of tricks. After hacking at the trees for a while, he freed the skis and then started pulling the snowmobile up the steep incline. The poor Brit got roped in, and was yanking from the front, while the guide and I were pushing from behind.
After much strain, the snowmobile was back on the path, and I pretended not to hear the Brit muttering darkly about shit-head South Africans who'd probably bought their drivers licenses.
To save face, I insisted that the vehicle was faulty and demanded a new one. Syphilis boy took the snowmobile on a test run down a cliff and up a tree (with a few loopy loops thrown in to show off) and said it was fine, so we continued. But alas, two more trees called, and my mobile answered, spectacularly.
As the Brits continued to mutter darkly, my wife nudged and winked at me, and whispered that I should follow her lead. She started speaking in an Australian accent and mentioned that she wondered if our kangaroo was still pining for us while we were away, and that her friend Matilda had torn her ligament from all that waltzing she'd been doing. Apparently it was important to her that we not give all South Africans a bad name through my immense toss-fuck-like behavior. Rather let them go home and tell all their friends how stupid Australians are.
At this point our guide said maybe we should swap vehicles, which we did. Turns out, it was not the bike. Apparently, I love crashing into trees - who would have thunk it..
To be continued...
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